


Between the Lines

by Land_Under_Wave



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Universe - Modern Day, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Anxiety, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Probably OOC?, Unrequited Love, With a nice side helping of unrequited feelings and miscommunication, Yennefer Triss and Sabrina are queens, alcohol mention, and kind of a mess, friends to almost lovers to strangers and back to friends again, this is very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Land_Under_Wave/pseuds/Land_Under_Wave
Summary: Music therapist Jaskier has been in love with his best friend since their university days, and in the last few weeks, their relationship finally looks like it might be heading towards the fairytale ending Jaskier has always dreamed of. But when a trip to A & E throws Geralt into the path of a beautiful nurse, how will Jaskier cope with the sudden dashing of hopes he thought he had long since put to rest?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Unrequited - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Can't Say I Love You (But I'll Try)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499653) by [obvious_apostate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obvious_apostate/pseuds/obvious_apostate). 



> This fic owes a massive debt of gratitude to obvious_apostate's 'I can't say I love you (but I'll try)' which I finished reading in April. The last chapter broke my heart and then put it back together again and I literally haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. Thus was birthed...whatever the hell this is. Idk what this is. Is it ooc? Is there any emotional payoff? Does it even make sense? Who knows? Not me!  
> It's been a real killer to write; I started it in like June I think, so am very relieved to finish it can stop living rent free in my brain.  
> Anyway, go and read I can't say I love you (but I'll try) if you want to cry for a long time. 
> 
> Happy reading lovely people!

It was a Friday night exactly like all other Friday nights, except in the way in which it was nothing like other Friday nights. Jaskier was preparing to read some of his poetry at the open mic night at the local bar, which he had been attending at 8:30 every Friday since he was a student. He had his usual gin and tonic in front of him, beside his phone and his falling-apart poetry journal. He was wearing a blue shirt that matched his eyes, a pair of black jeans and brown boots; practically his uniform for events like this. Thus far, then, a Friday night totally indistinguishable from any other. The massive, glaring difference, however, was that this was the first open mic night Jaskier had ever done at which Geralt would not be in attendance. He had a date, you see. Jaskier took a deep breath to try and stop himself from bursting into tears, which had been happening periodically since Geralt had announced apologetically the previous evening that he wouldn’t be coming with him, and found himself thinking moodily about the state of his life.

*

He would be the first to admit that being in love with the same person, for over ten years, and with no hope of ever having that love reciprocated, was a little ridiculous. And Jaskier was not in the habit of making himself ridiculous. Not on purpose, anyway. But he seemed to have absolutely no control over his feelings for Geralt Rivia. They’d met as first year students at university; the only two occupants of the flat they shared with four other people to have any interest in a) keeping the flat clean and b) actually doing any studying. They had been best friends practically from day one, and had been inseparable ever since. Hence their standing arrangement to meet, at the very least, every Friday night so that Geralt could watch Jaskier perform. Geralt did not understand poetry, but he had insisted that if Jaskier wanted support for his performances (and Jaskier certainly _had_ needed support, especially that first time) then Geralt would be there for him. He was good like that.

It had quickly become clear that Jaskier’s feelings were going to remain unrequited, and so he had done his best to throw himself into other things that would distract him – other relationships, his studies and, once he had graduated, his job as a music therapist. And it had, largely, worked. He had never been in love with his past partners the way he was in love with Geralt, but he was a generous lover, and all of his relationships had ended amicably enough. He thought he had made his peace with never having Geralt for himself, and was proud of himself for it.

Which was what had made the past couple of months so confusing for him. Because Geralt’s behaviour towards him had…changed. Not in any ways that anyone else would have noticed, really. Just little things. Going out for dinner just the two of them, rather than in the big group that they usually did (he and Geralt, their mutual friends Triss and Sabrina, and a circulating roster of other people they sort of knew often met for big dinners, in the way that groups of adults who don’t actually have that much to say to each other often do). Geralt touched him a lot more too, putting a hand on his back to steer him through crowds, putting an arm around the back of his chair, hugging him goodbye for just a fraction of a second longer than before. _Looking at him_ in a way so subtly altered from usual that, to start with, Jaskier had admonished himself for not keeping his feelings in check. _Projecting_. Except that, after a few weeks, Triss had started to notice too. And then Jaskier had really started to panic. He _wanted_ Geralt to like him back, obviously. Wanted it _desperately._ But he'd never been in a relationship with someone he was in love with, had never had his feelings reciprocated in that way and worried that he wouldn’t know what to _do._

It turned out he didn’t need to worry. On the Saturday before his first solo performance at _The Swallow,_ disaster had struck in the form of a nosebleed that just wouldn’t stop. Jaskier often had nosebleeds, and wasn’t too worried, but Geralt was beside himself.

“There’s so much blood, Jask!” he’d growled – Geralt didn’t do worry the way most people did, but then Jaskier knew him better than most people, and saw the growling for what it was. “We need to go to A & E. What if you bleed to death?!” Jaskier had smiled fondly at him and agreed to be driven to the hospital, with a warm fuzzy feeling inside. Was this what it felt like to have your feelings requited? How _lovely!_ Geralt had driven extremely carefully, keeping up a stream of inane comforting words which Jaskier didn’t really hear, partly because he was a bit busy trying not to get blood all over Geralt’s car, and partly because his heart was pounding in his ears. Even after almost ten years of unrequited love, Jaskier was still astonished at the depth of his feelings. He felt like he could float away. Or maybe cry. Or both.

And then they’d reached A &E, mercifully empty at 11am on a Saturday morning, and there had been the nurse. Shiny black hair and dark eyes that looked almost purple in the fluorescent light of the hospital. Beautiful. As Jaskier had been led away from the waiting area by a friendly doctor who was chattering about something or other, he had looked back over his shoulder at his friend, and seen the look on his face. A look that suggested he had just been punched in the gut, or perhaps was having a religious experience. He was _blushing,_ for heaven’s sake; Geralt had never once blushed in the decade they had known each other! But he was blushing now, and he was wearing a lovely, bashful smile. And then Jaskier had been weirdly grateful for the blood loss, because it meant no one needed to know, when he started to cry, that it wasn’t the nosebleed that was hurting him. It was just that he hadn’t been as prepared to lose Geralt’s heart to someone else as he had thought.

*

Jaskier didn’t really see Geralt in the week after that, although he’d texted a lot. Mainly to talk about the pretty nurse, whose name was Yennefer. Then on Thursday morning, the following:

1:30am Geralt: U up?

1:31am Jaskier: mhm

1:31am Geralt: Can’t sleep.

1:32am Jaskier: Right

1:32am Geralt: Can’t stop thinking about her.

1:34am Jaskier: Have you tried reading? Meditating?

1:34am Geralt: Yh tried that. Want to ask her out. Would it be weird if I did it now?

1:36am Jaskier: U been talking?

1:36am Geralt: Yeah, all the time. She’s so smart!

1:38am Geralt: Jask?

1:45am Jaskier: Sorry had to pee. Guess it wouldn’t be weird.

1:45am Geralt: Wat do I say?

1:50am Jaskier: idk just ask if she wants to have dinner or coffee or breakfast or go to the park or sth

1:50am Geralt: Never felt like this before

1:53am Jaskier: Don’t tell her that. Scare her off

1:57am Geralt: Did it!

1:58am Jaskier: Good job. Now sleep

1:59am Geralt: Yes mum

5:30pm Geralt: GOT A DATE!

He’d phoned that afternoon. And Jaskier had had to listen to his plans to take her to the nice Italian restaurant in town, and then maybe take her to see the light installation at the park. Jaskier had nearly hung up on him, then. Because barely two weeks ago, he had promised _Jaskier_ that he would take him to the light installation. Jaskier loved things like that. But he couldn’t do it, so he sat dumbly and listened, and made all the right noises. Then Geralt went quiet.

“Listen, um. The-the thing is, the only time she has off is Fridays, so…so I’m taking her out tomorrow night.” Jaskier froze. His chest burned. His throat closed over. “Jask? You-are you still there?”

“Yep,” Jaskier squeaked.

“I’m really sorry, I know we always do Friday nights, and I know you’re doing that new poem you’ve been working on tomorrow, I just- this one she. I dunno. I think she might be important, Jask.” Tears started to spill out of Jaskier’s eyes.

“Ok,” he whispered. “That’s…I mean, that’s fine.” Geralt seemed to be able to tell that it wasn’t.

“I’m really sorry, Jask. I’ll come next week, I promise.”

“Ok,” Jaskier said again. “I’ll see you round, Geralt.” He didn’t move for a very long time after they hung up. There were four emotions roiling in his overwhelmed mind. The first was a sense of injustice. Even when Jaskier had been dating, he had never, ever, _ever_ broken the Friday Night Rule. He had made it very clear to everyone he dated that Friday nights were a sacred time to spend with his friend. And although Geralt had promised to come next week, the Rule had been broken now. There was nothing stopping him from breaking it again, and again, until the Friday Night Rule was more of an Occasional Friday Night Meeting and then before you knew it, they didn’t see each other for weeks at a time. The second was the breaking up of routine. Jaskier needed routine. He didn’t like last-minute plans and last-minute changes, and Friday nights were a big part of Jaskier’s normal life that helped keep him grounded. Geralt knew that. Then there was the problem of his poem. Jaskier had had a Plan. Since he and Geralt had started to grow closer, Jaskier had started working on a poem, explaining how he felt. He had planned to read it tomorrow night, and then had hoped to bring it up in conversation with Geralt and then maybe…maybe they might take their relationship to the next level. But how could he read a poem about the joy of a new relationship when his heart was broken? Jaskier was under no illusion that he was an incredible, world-class performance poet. He knew that his performances were good enough for the bar circuit, but nothing special. But even he knew that his poetry sounded better when he was actually _feeling_ what he was reading and writing about. He wasn’t a good enough actor to make the emotions ring true when he wasn’t feeling them. So now he needed to read something else. And he didn’t really have much else worth reading. Which left him with two choices – read something below standard, and make a fool of himself, or totally abandon routine and not bother going to the recital at all. And then after all _that_ was his terribly, terribly hurt feelings. He had allowed Triss to convince him that it wasn’t all in his head; that Geralt really was starting to take their relationship in a different direction. He had started thinking again about what a relationship with Geralt might be like; dreaming about the flat they would live in together, the pets they would have. He hadn’t allowed himself to think that way for years. He had left his heart unguarded and he had paid the price for it.

Which was how he found himself in _The Swallow_ at 8:30 the following evening, nursing his usual drink, and trying very hard not to cry. He hadn’t realised how comforting it was to have Geralt in the audience for him every Friday. Having someone who was always on his side, who thought that what he read was good, even when it wasn’t. And now he was all by himself, and the thought upset him more than he was willing to admit. He took another steadying breath, and then looked down at his phone when it buzzed. Triss.

8:32pm Triss: So, I just saw Geralt out for dinner with some girl?

Jaskier whimpered. He didn’t want to have this conversation now. But Triss was determined and he didn’t want his phone going off all the time during the recital. That was incredibly rude. So he fired back a quick ‘Yh, has a date’ and then turned his phone off. The general buzz in the room started to peter out as David, who ran the open mic night, introduced the evening. The familiar spiel relaxed him slightly. Just a normal Friday evening. He was ok. 

In fact, this sense of almost-peace remained with him right until the moment he stepped up to the mic. He wasn’t super enthused about this poem, but that was fine. Some weeks were like that. Out of habit, he looked to the back of the room, where Geralt usually sat to give him a thumbs up. Obviously unable to find him, Jaskier almost gave up. He was so close to just turning to David and saying ‘no, sorry, can’t do it,’ and going home and crying for the rest of the evening. But the open mic night was his _thing_. He couldn’t give it up just because Geralt had spoiled it for him. He would just have to unspoil it. So he took a steadying breath, and began to read.

It wasn’t his finest performance, or his best poetry, but no one laughed, and the applause at the end seemed genuine, so he decided to count it as a win. He even managed to tolerate Valdo Marx’s performance – complete with false tears and wailing, as usual – without the aid of Geralt’s sarcastic humour. He would be ok.

*

At the end of the evening, unwilling to go home, he helped David put the chairs away, and clean the sticky patches of spilled drinks that inevitably accumulate wherever large groups of people are drinking.

“You ok, man?” David asked. Jaskier flinched slightly.

“Yeah, I’m good. Why?”

“Well, y’know – no Geralt. He ok?” Jaskier sighed.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He just um…has a date, tonight. Couldn’t make it.” David’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Shit, man. I thought-y’know, you and him…” he trailed off uncomfortably. Jaskier smiled sadly. “Yeah, man. So did I.”

When he got home, Jaskier made himself drink some water, and eat something reasonably nourishing before he turned his phone on again; he could practically feel Triss’s righteous anger emanating from the black rectangle on the counter.

8:33pm Triss: WTF?! What happened to the Friday Night Rule?

Like

What an arsehole?

WHAT’S HIS EXCUSE?

JASK????

Jaskier smiled, despite himself. It was nice to have his feelings validated by someone else.

9:55pm Jaskier: Srry, open mic night. She’s a nurse. Met her when we went to A&E last weekend. Only free Fridays. It’s fine. I’m fine

9:59pm Triss: Oh, Jask

Jaskier really did cry then. He had often thought, when he was training to be a therapist, that learning what he _should_ do with his feelings might help his mental health. What it had actually done was just make him feel weak and guilty whenever he ate a whole pint of ice cream instead of writing a poem, or when he stayed up all night listening to sad songs instead of going to bed early so he could get up to go for a jog the next morning. This time though, for once, what he wanted to do and what the therapist living in his brain said he should do were exactly the same – he wanted to call Triss, and he wanted to cry and cry until he physically couldn’t anymore.

10:03 Jaskier: Can I call you?

She called him back barely 30 seconds later.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said gently. Jaskier howled. Triss let him. In her small, one bedroom flat, 20 minutes away, she was thinking of all the hundreds of times Jaskier had done this for her, and wondered how he had been able to cope. Just five minutes of listening to her friend cry had damn near broken her heart.

After about quarter of an hour of this, Jaskier’s sobs turned into hiccups, which turned into sniffs, which gradually subsided into the deep breathing techniques that Jaskier always did with his patients before a music session. Triss wasn’t sure what to say.

“So, um…how was the open mic night?”

“Fine.” Triss snorted.

“Uh huh. And I’m 8 feet tall. C’mon, hon, you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

“It was _awful._ It was all spoiled because he wasn’t there, and I couldn’t read the poem I was going to do so I had to do a different one, and it wasn’t as good, and I didn’t have anyone to talk to and I couldn’t stop thinking about him out with someone else.” He said all in a rush. Triss made a sympathetic noise. She knew that last-minute changes were a big problem for her friend.

“What was the poem?” she found herself asking next. Damnit, she really wasn’t cut out for this. Jaskier sniffed again.

“Just something I’ve been working on. About…about new relationships and love and stuff. I was going to read it and then he was going to ask who it was about and then maybe we were going to talk about it and…I dunno, Triss. I guess I was gonna shoot my shot, or something. But I couldn’t read it when he wasn’t even there.”

“Well, hey, maybe the date won’t go well. Maybe he’ll find out this nurse isn’t as nice as he thought, and things’ll go back to how they were?” Jaskier shook his head, and then remembered that this was a phone call, and Triss couldn’t see him.

“Nah. You didn’t see his face, Triss. When he saw her, I mean. He looked like he’d been hit by lightning, or something. And he’s taking her to the new light installation at the park, did I say?”

“Bastard! Wait, the one he said he was going to take you to?”

“Yeah.”

“Bastard!

“He’s not a bastard, Triss. He’s just…in love.” The word was like a knife through his chest, but he didn’t like Triss saying things like that about Geralt.

“But he-he _knew!_ He knew how much going to see it with him meant to you!”

“Well…yeah.”

“Fucking hell. Shall I- do you want me to say something? To him?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” Triss tutted.

“You’re always telling me not to lie about how I feel, Jask. People who are fine don’t spend fifteen minutes crying down the phone.”

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s not- It’s fine. Good. I want you to talk to me when you’re not feeling good. God knows you spend enough time listening to me!” Jaskier chuckled wetly.

“Now you sound like the therapist.” Triss laughed. It always sounded weird down the phone, but Jaskier thought that Triss’s laugh was one of the best sounds in the world. There was silence for a moment.

“I just…I just felt so pathetic. I still do. Pining after someone for ten years isn’t…it’s not healthy, Triss. Why can’t I just let it go?”

“To be fair, though, you kind of had until he started leading you on-” Jaskier spluttered indignantly “-no, Jask, he did lead you on. If he had been serious about where your relationship was going, he wouldn’t have got distracted by someone else. He led you on, and that was unfair. If someone’s dropping hints that they want to be with you, letting yourself have feelings isn’t _pathetic,_ Jask. It’s just…well, that’s how it’s meant to go, right? Like, one person develops feelings for someone, and then if they’re lucky, the other person has a think about _their_ feelings and goes ‘yep, I like them too’ and then you have a relationship. Not your fault that didn’t happen.”

“I guess. I just…I don’t know what to do now, y’know?”

“Well, for one thing, don’t let him get away with it. Everything else aside, like, it was super unfair of him to change your plans so last minute. He knows you hate that. And you’ve always respected the Friday Night Rule. Like, you never broke it even when you were with Penny, I remember, she was always complaining about it. So, you need to make sure he knows that just because you’re…you’re not….” Triss trailed off. Jaskier’s shoulders tensed with pre-emptive agony. Triss went on: “Just because you’re not in a relationship, doesn’t mean your friendship isn’t important. You always understood that, and you need to make sure he does too.” Jaskier thought his chest might collapse with misery, but he felt a strange pride for his friend. For all that Triss claimed to have the emotional intelligence of a mushroom, she wouldn’t have made a bad therapist herself.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“You know I’m right. Anyway, listen, I have to get up early tomorrow, so are you gonna be ok if I let you go now?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“You got plenty of ice cream?” Jaskier snorted.

“Yeah, loads. I’ll be alright, Triss.”

“Alright. Well, just…don’t forget to take your meds, ok? And drink some water, and eat something that isn’t ice cream. And like…I love you, ok? You’re important.” Jaskier smiled again.

“Thanks, Triss. Talk soon.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

Jaskier sat for a moment after Triss had hung up, trying to control his breathing. He wasn’t really hungry, and didn’t feel like he could sleep, so he went to fetch his poetry journal from his bag. He was determined that he was only going to do healthy things. But then he saw the poem he had written for Geralt and started crying again. In a fit of masochism, he texted Geralt to ask how the date had gone and then felt even worse when he didn’t reply. He wondered if she was spending the night. The thought made him feel sick. He took some steadying breaths, and then decided maybe yoga would help. It didn’t. Neither did the mug cake that he whipped up for himself. He took his meds, brushed his teeth and tried to deep-breathe himself to sleep, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his duvet. But every time he felt himself drifting, his mind inevitably wandered to golden brown eyes looking deep into violet ones. He quickly jumped off that train of thought and padded back into the living room. He eventually settled on watching old episodes of the Great British Bakeoff.

This didn’t help either. Or at least, it didn’t seem to. Except that suddenly it was 10 in the morning and he was still on the sofa, blinking blearily. He rolled onto the floor with a groan and did a quick scan of his body.

He was proud of himself. 10 o’clock wasn’t monstrously late, and he hadn’t hurt himself, got drunk, taken drugs (in fairness, Jaskier wasn’t actually sure where he would even _get_ drugs, but this was beside the point) or slept with anyone he shouldn’t have. He had a crick in his neck from sleeping on the sofa, but apart from that, he wasn’t that much the worse for wear. He was almost in a good mood, until he checked his phone for messages. There were three from Geralt.

8:00am Geralt: She’s AMAZING. Smart and funny and beautiful. Also great in bed.

Jaskier’s heart sank. She had stayed over, then.

9:45am Geralt: Can I call you?

Jaskier sighed. He supposed he might as well get the conversation over with. He hit the call button. Geralt picked up at the second ring.

“Hey!” Geralt’s voice was loud and more cheerful than Jaskier had ever heard it, even through the phone. Jaskier winced at the noise.

“Morning,” he croaked.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah it’s fine. Just woke up.”

“Hm.” There was silence for a moment.

“Go on then. Tell me about this incredible date.” He hadn’t meant to sound so bitter but found that he didn’t care. Geralt hadn’t considered his feelings, so he felt that he was justified in disregarding Geralt’s in this small way.

“She _is_ incredible,” Geralt breathed. Jaskier’s chest burned with envy. He’d _never_ heard Geralt talk this way before. “She’s so funny! And she’s super smart, and we had so many things in common! We talked for hours and hours. And we went to that light installation in the park, it’s great! You’ll have to go sometime.” Jaskier’s gut churned. _You_ should go. Not _we._ Then Geralt told him about their first kiss, and their time in bed together, and how good she had felt in his arms, and how he was convinced he was in love.

“Is it too soon to know if I’m in love?” he wondered.

“No,” Jaskier told him. He knew he should say more; he never shut up, usually, if they talked on the phone, but he was shaking so hard he was having a hard time remembering how to form words.

“Hm. How was the open mic night? Did they like your poem?” Jaskier’s eyes pricked with tears. He brushed them away angrily.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t read it. Mood in the room wasn’t right. It was fine.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Maybe I’ll read it next week, and you can hear it.” Silence. Jaskier’s world started to fall down around him. Because he was sure he knew what that silence meant, even without Geralt having to say anything.

“Yeah, about that….listen, Jask. I…I really like her. Yennefer, I mean. And it’s…I want to spend more time with her, but she’s only got Fridays off for the next three weeks, so…I mean. That would be ok, right? You can go by yourself? Or…hey, you could take Triss! She likes watching you perform.” Jaskier could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. He knew this would happen. He _knew_ this would happen.

“Yeah I guess so. Maybe we can hang out another day?” Another silence. Jaskier’s lower lip started to wobble.

“The thing is…I took all of next Friday off so I can spend the day with her, so I’m…kind of working nights all week. I’m really sorry, Jask.” Jaskier sat down heavily.

“Yeah, ok. Right. I’ll see you…sometime then, I guess,” Jaskier muttered, and hung up. He couldn’t stand to hear another word. He couldn’t believe it. How their relationship had changed in the course of a week! Last Saturday, Geralt had insisted on driving him to the hospital because of a nosebleed, and now this week his new girlfriend was more important even than their standing Friday night engagement of over a decade. Jaskier did the only thing he could do in this situation, which was go back to bed and cry himself to sleep.

*

Jaskier’s dark prediction came true – he didn’t see Geralt again for weeks. They still phoned periodically, and Geralt got into a habit of texting him whenever Yennefer said or did something of note, but they hadn’t seen each other in person since the day Geralt drove him to A&E. And Jaskier missed him terribly. He went to work, he went to occasional after-work drink with co-workers, he went to open mic nights, he ate ice cream. He cried a great deal, which he found extremely embarrassing – therapists shouldn’t be this cut up about a guy, surely? But Geralt was never free when Jaskier suggested they meet up, and eventually he stopped asking.

He started making other plans on Friday nights. He had done some training about how to help people who were struggling with the end of relationships, and had come across the concept of dating yourself, so he started going to the cinema by himself, and taking himself out to dinner at fancy restaurants. He didn’t find it as empowering as he had hoped. He had also realised that what had made the open mic nights so special was that he always went to them with Geralt, and he found he didn’t enjoy them so much when he went by himself. One week, Triss decided that she and Sabrina were going to take him out for dinner.

“I can’t stand seeing you so unhappy,” Sabrina told him over the phone. “We’ll pay, you just get whatever you fancy, lovely. And we’ll have fun, the three of us together, won’t we?” Jaskier had agreed over the phone, but the truth was the idea of third-wheeling for Triss and Sabrina, who were utterly devoted to one another, sounded awful. He was so lonely that he was sure he would burst into tears at the first sign of affection between them. But the alternative – sitting at home with no one but a tub of ice cream for company or attending open mic nights all by himself – sounded worse. And then, the day before they were due to meet, he got a phone call from Geralt almost as soon as he got home from work.

“Hey, Jask.”

“Hi.”

“Um…so, listen. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow.” Jaskier blinked mutely.

“I know it’s kind of short notice, but Yennefer’s working tomorrow night, so…”

“So, I’m an adequate alternative, am I? Great. Well, sorry to break it to you, but I’m actually busy tomorrow night.” Jaskier had never spoken to Geralt like this before, but in his unhappiness, he found that he didn’t care.

“That’s not…I haven’t seen you for weeks, Jask! We always used to see each other on Friday nights.” He actually sounded hurt, and it was this more than anything else that made Jaskier lose his temper.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?! Every week I ask if you want to hang out but no, you always want to see Yennefer instead. Believe it or not, Geralt, I do actually have other people to see. I haven’t just been sat around at home by myself, waiting for you to remember I exist. So we can hang out some other time, but tomorrow I have plans.” There was silence on the other end of the phone, so Jaskier hung up. He knew he was being petty, but the truth was that, right now, he didn’t want to talk to Geralt. Or see him. He had been planning on going to the gym after work today, but suddenly the idea of going somewhere he might encounter other people was nauseating, so we went to bed early – again – and ignored the buzzing of his phone when Geralt tried to call him back. He could already picture the expression his face would be wearing, the ‘I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong’ frown, and the idea that he genuinely _couldn’t_ understand what he had done wrong was abhorrent to Jaskier.

He slept badly, and struggled to get out of bed the following morning. He loved his job, and was good at it, so the fact that he was a nervous wreck due to lack of sleep and general misery didn’t affect his work – much. He was jumpy, though, spilling several cups of coffee when co- workers came into the kitchen too quietly. He knew that the caffeine wouldn’t be helping his anxiety any, but found with only a dull stab of guilt that he didn’t actually care. He was just about able to concentrate through the group sessions that dominated his morning – a group of veterans first thing, followed by a group from the retirement home in the next town that had been organised by an anti-loneliness charity and a group from the local school for kids with special educational needs, which was always his favourite because the kids were so thrilled that they were allowed to make noise. People often told him they thought he was a saint for agreeing to run those sessions, but they were the best part of his week. He had never met anyone with more genuine appreciation for making music than those kids. By midday, however, his restless night and a morning of resolutely ignoring Geralt’s texts and phone calls had caught up with him, and the dull throb of a migraine was beginning behind his left eye. He spent his lunch hour psyching himself up for the individual sessions he would be giving that afternoon – an angry teenager who found peace in the steady rhythm of his drumkit; a young couple who had recently lost their baby, and who found comfort in the choral works of John Rutter; a slick-young-professional type facing bullying and harassment at work after coming out who found resolve and strength in the expressive ballets of Tchaikovsky. But then his supervisor Dan came into the small room where staff went to eat their lunch, took one look at his grey, sweaty face and sent him home.

“You can’t pour from an empty cup, Jaskier,” he reminded him gently. It was one of his favourite expressions, and something that he drummed into all the therapists he supervised. Jaskier nodded weakly in thanks and called a taxi to pick him up.

By the time he reached home, every muscle in his body felt as though it had seized up, and the throbbing behind his left eye was so bad he thought he might pass out. He made it into the kitchen and pulled the sports icepack he kept for this very reason out of the freezer, almost sobbing with relief when he laid it across his forehead. He pinged a garbled text of apology to Triss through half-lidded eyes and then lay down on the sofa, trying to breathe. He tried not to think about Geralt. This was actually less difficult than he had anticipated, seeing as it currently felt like a large slab of throbbing concrete had taken up residence inside his skull; this didn’t leave much space for anything as mundane as thoughts. He had turned his phone off; the buzzing sent shock-bright agony lancing through his head, and he couldn’t feel guilty about ignoring messages he didn’t know he was getting.

*

The next thing Jaskier was aware of was soft voices, and someone gently putting a blanket over him. He opened his eyes blearily, and then whimpered when the light bored through the back of his eyes and sliced through his brain.

“Shh,” said a soft female voice, “you’re ok, it’s only me.”

“S’brina?” he slurred with a tongue that felt twice as big as it was supposed to be.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here. Triss too.”

“Mm,” Jaskier mumbled, and turned over to go back to sleep.

The next time he woke up, opening his eyes didn’t hurt. He did feel rather like he had been hit by a train though, so he groaned and rolled himself off the sofa onto the floor. Triss and Sabrina, sitting at his kitchen table, looked over at the noise.

“Hey, you,” Triss called softly. “You hungry?” Jaskier thought for a moment.

“Could eat. Maybe toast.” When Sabrina got up to prepare it, Jaskier was hit by another thought.

“How are you in my flat?” Triss gave him a Look.

“I know where your spare key is.”

“And how, exactly, do you know this?”

“Because I made Geralt tell me where it was.”

“Right.” His stomach flipped unpleasantly at the mention of Geralt’s name.

“He’s worried about you, by the way.” Jaskier was saved from saying anything by the arrival of Sabrina with his toast. “Says you hung up on him and didn’t want to hang out, or something? He wasn’t really making much sense, but he sounded pissed.” Jaskier swallowed his mouthful of toast.

“Good.” Triss blinked at him.

“What happened?” Jaskier sighed.

“He called yesterday. Said Yennefer wasn’t free, so did I want to hang out today. And I guess I kind of lost my temper a bit. I’ve been asking to see him for weeks but he was always busy and then this one time he can’t see his girlfriend so he thinks ‘hey, Jaskier has no social life, he’ll definitely be free to hang out with me even though I’ve been blowing him off for weeks’. And, I mean. He’s right. But like. Still. And then he was doing his hurt voice and I just got so angry because that’s how I’ve been feeling for weeks and months and he didn’t even think about how that would make me feel, or apologise, or anything.” He paused to take a breath. Triss looked pained.

“That’s…actually really shitty.” She sounded almost surprised. To be honest, Jaskier didn’t blame her – _he_ was surprised _._ Geralt was not terribly emotionally articulate, but he’d never been _unkind_ before. Sabrina and Triss sat down either side of him, clearly at a loss for what to say. Jaskier was grateful that they didn’t try to take his mind off it or talk him out of it or anything. He wasn’t sure he was ready to start being rational just yet.

“So, what are you going to do?” Sabrina asked.

“’Bout what?” She rolled her eyes.

“Geralt! You gonna talk to him, or what?” Jaskier scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I don’t…see how I can. I mean, I can’t tell him. About. Y’know. But I just…can’t stand being around him, just now. I can’t bear it. But then I also feel bad because like. He genuinely doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.” Beside him, Triss scoffed.

“That’s not your fault! If he can’t see that starting to like…woo you, or whatever, and then suddenly changing his mind when he meets someone else is hurtful, then that’s on him.” Jaskier sniffed.

“Yeah. But…I miss him.” No one speaks for a long time. Because that was the problem. Refusing to see Geralt out of some misplaced desire to punish him for hurting Jaskier’s feelings would, clearly, hurt Jaskier more than it would hurt Geralt. But things couldn’t go on the way they were.

“How’s your head doing?” Triss asked after about ten minutes of silence. Jaskier shrugged.

“Fine, I guess. Nothing a good nights’ sleep can’t cure.”

“Will you get one, though?” Jaskier looked blankly at her. “Good nights’ sleep?”

“Oh. Well. No. Probably not. You don’t have to stay, though.” It was Sabrina’s turn to scoff.

“We’re not leaving you, Jask. If you’re feeling a bit better tomorrow, we’ll leave you alone, but right now being alone would be a Very Bad Thing.” Jaskier could practically hear the capital letters; the expression he taught them to use when talking about things that might be bad for their mental health. He beamed with pride, despite the hollow ache in his chest.

They ended up spending the evening talking quietly, the lights in the flat dimmed, and then going to bed early. When he woke up, Jaskier felt a bit less like he was about to lose it and sent Triss and Sabrina home.

“Promise you’ll call if you need anything,” Triss told him seriously as they were heading out the door. “I mean it, Jask, anything you need, we’re here for you.” Jaskier smiled and hugged her tight.

“I know, sweet girl. Thanks for staying.” He hugged Sabrina, and then Triss again, and then blew them kisses out of the window until he couldn’t see them anymore. Suddenly, Jaskier was alone in the flat and didn’t know what to do with himself. What he _wanted_ to do was call Geralt. Or go over to Geralt’s house. Hug Geralt. Generally exist in the vicinity of Geralt. But he was also angry with Geralt; angry and hurt, and he wanted Geralt to be the one to reach out. Wanted something, anything, that would let him know that Geralt did actually still care about him at all.

He sort of got his wish. That evening, Geralt sent a message in their ‘Dinner Buddiez’ group chat, saying that he wanted Jaskier, Triss and Sabrina to meet Yennefer and could they meet up for dinner some time next week? Jaskier looked at the message for a long, long time, so angry and confused he couldn’t think about anything except how angry and confused he was. Then he got up, walked very carefully back into his bedroom, put his face in his pillow and screamed until his throat was raw. When this didn’t help, he rolled up his duvet and punched it, yelling, until his arms were so tired he couldn’t lift them anymore. He didn’t really feel any better after that either. He flopped down onto the bed, lying on his back, and spent a happy hour drafting messages with various potential sarcastic, cold and even cruel responses in his head. Then he went back into the kitchen, picked up his phone and shot back:

11:30 Jaskier: Sure, that sounds great! X

As if he could have ever said anything else.

*

The appointed day was the following Wednesday. Jaskier had spent the hour before they were due to meet fussing with his hair, fussing with his clothes, generally fussing. He had been imagining, for weeks, what it would be like to meet Yennefer properly, and now the day was here, and he was _nervous._ Nervous that she would see right through him, see everything he was feeling with those purple eyes (not contacts, apparently; some sort of genetic mutation) and feel threatened by it, and command Geralt never to see him again. Or, worse, see right through him and _not_ feel threatened by him. See him for exactly what he was – a slightly pathetic man in his early 30s who didn’t really have serious relationships because he was in love with his best friend, who was not interested in him.

What he had not expected was to like her. He had been so ready to hate her. He _wanted_ to hate her. He wanted her to be awful and cruel and selfish and unkind, and then Jaskier could hate her and it would make him feel better, even if it didn’t achieve anything else. But they hit it off almost immediately. When she and Geralt arrived, hand in hand (Jaskier had had to look away for a moment, to compose himself), she had looked him straight in eye and _grinned,_ a toothy, feral thing; the sort of smile you give a co-conspirator. And all of the anger and hatred that had been building inside him since Geralt had asked to introduce them to her suddenly had nowhere to go. It got worse the more the evening went on. It turned out they had a great deal in common – Yennefer was also a fan of foreign language films, which Geralt refused to watch because it was too much effort to read the subtitles.

“But the fact that you don’t even _need_ to understand all the words shows how good they are!” Jaskier cried, waving his forkful of mashed potato for emphasis. “I’m always saying this, Geralt, you can follow the story even without understanding what the characters are saying.”

“Right?!” Yennefer shot back. “It’s in the eyes, I always think.” Jaskier thumped his fist on the table.

“That’s exactly it! How many times have I told him this? And he never listens!” Yennefer grinned at him again.

“We’ll get him eventually, my dear. Between us, I think we can be very persuasive!” Part of Jaskier ached to remember that he was no longer the greatest influence in Geralt’s life. Another was thrilled to have a partner in crime. Geralt groaned.

“This was a terrible idea. Between the two of you, I’ll never have a moment’s peace!”

Jaskier would have enjoyed himself, but for two things. The first was the constant underlying ache of rejection. The idea of Yennefer – sleeping in Geralt’s bed, eating breakfast with him, kissing him, holding his hand – was one thing, but being confronted with the reality of her was entirely another. She wasn’t the evil temptress that he had been trying to make her out to be; she was just a deliciously sarcastic, witty, intelligent woman, who had attracted Geralt because…well. Of course she had. No wonder Geralt never wanted to spend time with him anymore, if this was the alternative! _I wouldn’t hang out with me, either,_ he thought gloomily. The other problem was Triss, who was not being at all subtle with the looks of pity and concern she kept shooting him over the top of her wine glass.

“Geralt tells me you’re a poet, Jaskier?” he was surprised out of his gloomy musing by Yennefer’s question.

“Wha-oh, yeah. Yeah, I write stuff. Performance poetry, mainly, there’s an open mic night at _the Swallow.”_ He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Yennefer. Every word made her more human, more likeable, and if he couldn’t hate her, he didn’t know what to do with all the pain and anger he was feeling. Yennefer smiled.

“Maybe I’ll come along some time.” Jaskier smiled painfully.

“Yeah. Haven’t been for a while, actually. But yeah, that might be nice.”

“We could go on Friday, Yen?” was Geralt’s contribution. “We don’t have anything on that day.”

 _We,_ Jaskier thought, trying to ignore the stab of pain his friend’s words sent shooting through him. Trying to ignore the fact that it wasn’t enough for Geralt if only _Jaskier_ wanted him to attend the open mic night, and listen to him perform. What Jaskier wanted didn’t matter anymore; his wishes had no influence over his friend’s actions. But Yennefer wanted to go, and what Yennefer wanted, Jaskier was quickly learning, Yennefer always got. She smiled.

“Yeah, that sounds great!” Jaskier grimaced.

“Great.”

He didn’t sleep well that night. The pain and loneliness had, admittedly, been kept at bay in the company of his new friend – and she was a friend, Jaskier realised with a sickening jolt, a friend who he envied above every other living creature – but it came crashing back in full force now, all the worse for having no outlet anymore. He had been almost happy with his hate; poor substitute for Geralt’s attention though it was. He couldn’t have Geralt but he could hate the woman who had stolen him away. But now he had met her, and she hadn’t stolen him; in fact Jaskier was beginning to think that even Geralt was not really good enough for her. She was sarcastic and funny and excellent company, and Jaskier found himself unable to help liking her enormously. His consolation had been taken from him, and now he had nothing.

*

The problem now, of course, was that he had no poetry to read at t _he Swallow_ on Friday. He hadn’t written anything for weeks. He had only one source of inspiration, and he couldn’t have borne the pitied looks of the audience if he had read about loneliness and pain week after week. But now he was going back, and he had nothing to read. Damn it.

He had Thursday and Friday off that week, since all his patients had cancelled their appointments, so on Thursday afternoon he caved in and called Geralt, who was, unusually, available to meet, and took Jaskier to see the light installation at the park. Jaskier was furious with himself for not bringing up their last phone conversation, and even angrier with Geralt for not bringing it up either, but as he had already ascertained, their separation was more painful for Jaskier than for Geralt. Jaskier was a glutton for punishment, but even he could admit that he had suffered enough.

He realised the outing was a mistake almost as soon as they arrived at the park. For one thing, it was a cruel mockery of the first-date-that-wasn’t; a weird Sliding Doors moment that gave Jaskier a sickening glimpse into the life he might have had. For another, every step of their stroll around the installation was accompanied by a running commentary on what Yennefer had thought of the piece, back on their first date weeks and weeks ago. An arrangement of lovely, uneven, pink and blue bulbs twisted together to look like hanging baskets was ‘too asinine’ and cheesy. A collection of impressive ice-blue LEDs pressed between sheets of glass to look like icebergs were ‘uninspired’. By the third installation, Jaskier felt very much like tearing up the little information booklet they had picked up at the start of the walk into tiny pieces and storming off. But, well…he _did_ want to see the lights, and spending a day with Geralt talking about Yennefer was better than a day with no Geralt at all. By the time they reached the end of the installation, Jaskier was exhausted, but his ordeal wasn’t done yet.

Over fish and chips, Geralt told Jaskier in great detail about the emotional rollercoaster that he had experienced before, during and after his date with Yennefer. Jaskier was astonished that there was anything left to tell – he had gone into excruciating detail at dinner the night before, from the shade of the eyeshadow she was wearing to the way she had done her hair. And even if he hadn’t, Jaskier had met her now. He could imagine every minute facial expression in full HD. This did not seem to matter to Geralt.

“I was so nervous before she turned up! I didn’t know what to wear, you know I’m no good at picking clothes, and then Roach peed on the shirt I was going to wear, so I had to pick something _else_.” At this point, Jaskier, who had never liked Geralt’s dog, was suddenly seized with a burst of affection for the unfriendly creature. “And then I didn’t know what to do with my hair, so that was a whole thing. And then I saw her, and she- she was so beautiful, Jask! She hugged me hello, too, and I was really glad she made the first move about that because I had no idea what to do….” On and on it went, this strange conversational role-reversal – Geralt talking and talking as though he couldn’t stop, and Jaskier listening almost mutely, occasionally humming or grunting or making some other noise when required, his already painfully broken heart shattering and shrivelling a little more with every word. He _knew_ how good Yennefer looked in black – which she had been wearing last night – knew how her purple eyes sparkled with amusement, knew the way her black hair curled like woven silk in low lighting. He thought of his own eyes, boring blue, his fluffy brown hair. How had he ever imagined that Geralt could possibly be interested in him? He didn’t say this, naturally, just sat in silence while Geralt waxed poetic about how good it felt to kiss her.

They went to look at the ducks after that; Jaskier had always liked ducks. Duck Days, they had always called visits like this – a code word for when one of them was having a shitty day, and needed the peaceful simplicity of ducks, and water, and the families who congregated at the edge of it clutching bags of stale bread. Now they stood by the small lake in the park, not speaking, just listening to the ducks’ contented quacking for almost fifteen minutes. Jaskier took some deep breaths and tried to pretend. _Everything’s fine. Just a perfectly ordinary day. A nice day at the park, looking at the ducks with Geralt._ But then Geralt took them to a bench and wanted to talk about Yennefer some _more._ He spent almost another hour trying to decide, again, whether or not he was in love with her; insisting to begin with that he couldn’t possibly be, it was too soon, right? And then counterarguing that sometimes you just knew, and so maybe he was. He seemed to need very little input from Jaskier, which was just as well, because his temper was beginning to fray. He wasn’t sure he could stop himself from saying something that he would later regret. Then Geralt, having decided that he _was_ in love, turned to his friend with a huge smile and said:

“Isn’t being in love great?” Jaskier laughed, a dark, humourless sound.

“Only if the other person loves you back. Bit shit otherwise. Extremely shit.” Geralt sobered up a bit, then.

“Sorry, man. That sucks.” They sat in silence for several minutes, and Jaskier once again tried to pretend to himself that everything was fine. If he had been less mired in gloom, it might have occurred to him to wonder why Geralt wasn’t asking him more about his mysterious love that he had never mentioned before. But he didn’t wonder, he was simply grateful that Geralt’s famous curiosity and lack of emotional intelligence were not in play just now. Just now, he wanted to pretend for just a bit longer that nothing had changed. He had just had a lovely day with his friend, and there would be others like it. He tried to ignore the dark voice that told him that this might be the last Duck Day.

They couldn’t stay on that bench forever, though. Geralt always spent Saturday evenings with his brothers – Jaskier tried not to feel bitter that _that_ tradition was unscathed by Yennefer’s new presence in Geralt’s life – and Jaskier had a date with a microwave curry. On his way home, the muse, who had abandoned him since Geralt had missed that first open mic night, returned in all her glory, and Jaskier began to cultivate the seeds of an idea for a poem.

*

By Friday afternoon, Jaskier was happy with his poem. Well, ok, not _happy._ Even at the best of times he was never _happy_ with his poetry. But he was a satisfied as he ever got with his work. It was a little petty, he supposed, but his reasoning was thus: Yennefer, though he could not claim to know her well, struck him as the sort of person who appreciated honesty. She had said herself, over dinner, that she detested deception. Therefore, Jaskier felt suddenly that he needed to come clean, to her at least, about his feelings for Geralt. This was not a conversation that he wanted to have with her, so he was going to do it in the only way he knew how – by writing about it. His hope was that Yennefer, who seemed to have a keen understanding of poetry and art, would catch his meaning, while Geralt, who did not, would remain happily oblivious. Around 11 o’clock on Friday morning he put the finishing touches to his poem, and then stared at his journal.

It had all seemed like such a good idea last night, in the feverish throes of inspirational passion. In the harsh light of morning, it sounded petty, and pathetic, and a bit mean. By midday, he had talked himself out of it. He could write another poem. Something less good, perhaps, but now that he had relieved some of the pressure in his soul, he was sure he could rustle up something cheerful enough. An hour later he tore up his efforts and decided that, yes, he would read the poem he had written about Geralt. Yennefer deserved to know where they stood. He hoped she would appreciate his honesty enough not to murder him in his sleep – which he was firmly convinced she was absolutely capable of doing. Over and over again, making up his mind, unmaking it and then re-making it again. By the time it was time to leave for the open mic night, he still wasn’t sure.

He was distracted when he met Yennefer and Geralt at the bar, an extra chair pulled up where Geralt usually sat.

“I’ve missed these,” Geralt said, a little gruffly. Yennefer beamed proudly. Jaskier wondered, with a rush of feeling he was unable to identify, if she had admonished Geralt for neglecting him. That decided him. He wanted more of that; more consideration of his feelings, more feeling like he wasn’t going to lose Geralt completely, more feeling like, even if Geralt didn’t love him the way Jaskier wanted him to, Jaskier still _mattered_. More feeling like he was still important, even if only a little bit.

He downed his gin more quickly than usual. They called it liquid courage, didn’t they? His palms prickled with sweat, and his fingers trembled as he worried the pages of his journal. It would be fine, right? Yennefer would know what he meant, and Geralt wouldn’t, and it would be fine. And then a thought poured into his mind like a bucket of cold water. What if she told Geralt? Yennefer didn’t seem to be cruel, but she was vindictive, and more than a little petty – he remembered with a shudder what she said she had done to an ex-boyfriend who had cheated on her with a friend. Perhaps she would be threatened by him. Perhaps she would tell Geralt, and Geralt would hate him, and Jaskier’s life would be over. And then he thought about all the lies he’d had to tell. Biting his tongue to keep from telling the truth. And for the first time, he thought that maybe – just maybe – he was worth more than the potential cost of keeping Geralt in his life. It was a strange thought, and an uncomfortable one. But it was persistent, and by the time his turn came to take the mic, he was confident that it was the right one. That didn’t make it any easier to do, though. He waded to the mic through treacly air, on legs that were less steady than they ought to have been. Everything had slowed down, except his heartbeat, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. He took a deep breath.

“Hi everyone. Some of you will know me, although actually I- I haven’t been here for a while. I’m Jaskier. Um. Anyway, this is a poem called Between the Lines.” Jaskier realised his hands were shaking and clenched his fists. He was amused by his own terror; it was almost hilarious how out of proportion his body’s response was to this really-not-very-threatening situation. Almost. He began to read and was surprised when his voice was strong and clear, more powerful even than usual. It was the most personal poem he had ever read in public. He had poured into it all his hopes for his future with Geralt, everything he had wanted from their relationship. He had filled it with his love and his grief and his pain and his anger, and as it spilled into the room it seemed to Jaskier that in doing so, he had laced it with a kind of magic. The silence of the audience crackled with electricity, fed by Jaskier’s voice. He found that he couldn’t look at the back of the room where Geralt and Yennefer were sitting, because if he did that he would falter, and now that he had started, he found himself unable to stop. It occurred to him in the vague, dreamy space between words that he might need to see a therapist about all of this. But the thought was far away; locked in the unreality in which all things existed that were not his voice and these words. And then, suddenly, it was over. He reached the end of the page in his journal where he had written the poem. The spell was broken. People began to sit up and stretch as though they had just woken from a long nap. People wiped their eyes and were surprised to find they were wet with tears. Someone started to clap, and then another person joined them and then _the Swallow_ was alive with the sound of 30-ish people applauding. Jaskier came rushing back into himself, and suddenly felt very tired. He seemed to have used all his energy holding the room in thrall, and now that there was no poetry to hold him up, he felt a little like he might pass out. He wobbled back to his seat beside Yennefer, very carefully not looking at either her or Geralt. He barely heard David singing his praises from the front of the room, or the people who stepped up to the mic after he had left it. The next thing he knew, Yennefer was tapping him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Jask, it’s over.” Her voice was very gentle. This was a good sign. He hoped. He yawned and stood up, managing a tired smile.

“Cool. So. First open mic night, Yennefer, what do you think?” She grinned her feral, co-conspirator’s smile.

“I can see why you enjoy it so much! It’s kind of exhilarating!” She seemed to realise that he wasn’t up to much conversation, and as they made their way out of the bar, she launched into a detailed breakdown of the other poets’ work. Geralt still hadn’t said anything. Jaskier could feel his eyes on the back of his neck, but couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look at him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would find written on his friend’s face. When they made it back to Jaskier’s flat, where Geralt had parked his car, there was awkward silence. Jaskier cringed inwardly. What had he been _thinking?_ Could there possibly have been a more dramatic, ill-conceived way of talking about his feelings? Yennefer looked between them, and then huffed with irritated amusement.

“Right. Well, this was lovely, thank you, Jaskier. We should do this again!” Jaskier gave a watery smile, alarmed to find that tears were welling in his eyes. They both hugged him – Yennefer firmly, like she meant it, Geralt in a loose, distracted way that made Jaskier’s blood freeze – and then they were in the car, and were gone.

*

Yennefer was never, as a general rule, ill at ease. She was good at people, good at understanding them, good at fitting in with them. But this evening, she was feeling wrong-footed. She had got the message in Jaskier’s poem, and wondered how she could possibly have missed it before. And, most importantly, what she could do about it. So she did what she usually did when she didn’t know what to do (which was, admittedly, not very often) and set about gathering more information.

*

Triss was not in the habit of picking up her phone when she didn’t recognise the caller ID. She didn’t like having to deal with people trying to sell her stuff, and was a firm believer in the ‘if I don’t pick up they won’t know it’s a real number and won’t try to call me again’ school of thought. It had served her well for many years. On this occasion, though, something told her that picking up might be a good idea. What she was not expecting was a cool, articulate voice on the other end of the line, asking her about Jaskier and Geralt. She was relieved, though. She had been wondering for weeks about what she could do to make the situation better, given that Jaskier had expressly forbidden her from saying anything to Geralt. She had not been forbidden, however, from saying anything to _Yennefer. I love loopholes,_ she thought, as she and her new friend sat down for a heart-to-heart.

*

Geralt didn’t like feeling confused. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he didn’t like having it rubbed in his face by situations that made no sense. This was one of those situations. Jaskier’s behaviour confused him. One minute everything had been fine, and then suddenly it wasn’t. And not only that, but now he found out that Jaskier had this secret love he hadn’t told Geralt about – Geralt _hated_ that Jaskier was keeping secrets from him – and was writing poems about them. He knew that this person, whoever they were, had inspired the poem Jaskier read on Friday night. This was what upset him the most; the fact that someone had made his friend feel that much pain, and Jaskier hadn’t felt like he could talk to Geralt about it. It felt like he’d drifted away from his friend, and he didn’t even know how, or why, it had happened. He had spoken to Yennefer about it some, and she had raised an eyebrow at him.

“You don’t think this has anything to do with the fact that you’ve been refusing to hang out with him for weeks, to the point where he wasn’t even going to open mic nights – something that even I can see he _loves_ doing – because he wanted to go with you? Anything to do with the fact that you’ve hardly spoken to him recently?” She had rolled her eyes and strutted out the door, leaving Geralt to his disturbed thoughts. He had been so busy blaming Jaskier for this bizarre rift between them he hadn’t even stopped to think about his own behaviour. Well, now he was thinking about it, but he didn’t really know what there was to be done. It was like that time, a few years ago, when he had realised that Jaskier was in love with him. He hadn’t known what to do about that either, although the difference was that it had worked itself out – Jaskier had moved on with someone else. This, however, was more delicate. Whereas Geralt had had enough romantic experiences to know his way around that minefield without setting off too many explosions, Jaskier was his only real friend. This was uncharted territory.

He had been spending a lot of time working on the car, not because there was anything wrong with it, but just because cars made s _ense._ People, increasingly, did not. He heard the door to the garage opening, and looked over the bonnet of the car to see Yennefer carefully picking her way through the mine-field of twisted metal, old rags, boxes of tools and puddles of oil. Geralt smiled at her, his heart beating just that little bit faster.

“Hi,” he said, softly. She returned his smile distractedly.

“Hi.” Geralt felt the first stirrings of panic in his gut. Yennefer had been the same level of distracted since they got back from the open mic night on Friday, and Geralt was beginning to worry that something was seriously wrong. She settled herself on the stool that he always kept in the garage to reach the top shelves. Geralt wiped his hands on a rag and turned to her, swallowing round the lump in his throat. She looked uncomfortable, and that was another red flag – In his (admittedly limited) experience, Yennefer was never anything other than completely cool, calm and collected. She opened her mouth and then shut it. Then she did it again. Geralt fidgeted nervously with the hem of his shirt.

“What did you think of Jaskier’s poem on Friday?” she began finally. Geralt blinked. That…wasn’t what he was expecting. He was sure they had already had this conversation.

“I-yeah. It was good. I mean. Jaskier’s poems are always good. He’s…good. At poetry.” Yennefer smiled gently at him.

“Yes, he is. Do you remember the conversation we had on Friday? About…you were wondering about who Jaskier wrote his poem about?” Geralt nodded, still completely lost.

“Yeah – Yen, when are you asking me about this? What’s going on?” Yen rolled her eyes.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?” she said, all fond exasperation. “I think you need to talk to Jaskier about some things. And I think you need to apologise to him for not going to open mic nights anymore – really apologise, which you were supposed to do on Friday, remember? _And,_ when you see him, you need to tell him that I got the message, and that I’m sorry.” Geralt stared blankly at her, mouth agape.

“I- _what?_ ” Yennefer smiled kindly at him.

“Just tell him, ok?”

“Uh…yeah. Ok.” Geralt understood a dismissal when he heard one. He finished the car and went to take a shower before going to visit Jaskier.

*

Jaskier woke up on Wednesday morning feeling like shit. He had another day off – several of his clients had booked in early holidays ahead of the school-holiday-rush – and had planned to spend the day writing. Since his performance at _the Swallow_ on Friday, something seemed to have broken open inside him, and the words were pouring out almost faster than he could write them. But he had woken up with a headache beating like a mallet behind his eyes and nausea roiling in the pit of his stomach. He only barely resisted the urge to pull the duvet over his head and go back to sleep. Jaskier hauled himself out of bed, pausing to clutch his head when it throbbed at the movement. He shuffled into the kitchen with his eyes closed and downed some paracetamol and a glass of water. Five minutes standing over the sink covering his eyes saw him a little better; enough to force down some breakfast and have a shower. He got in before it had fully heated, enjoying the soothing effect of the icy water on his aching head. By the time he had finished his shower, he felt better still, although the edges of the world were still blurry and painful. He sat down heavily on the sofa, suddenly at a loss for what to do. He didn’t feel like writing, despite his plans, and wasn’t feeling up to leaving the house.

He must have dozed off, because next he knew, he was jerking awake to the sound of someone knocking on the door to the flat. He blinked, disoriented, and sat up carefully. The pounding in his head had, mercifully, abated, so he got up.

“Just a minute,” he called to his unknown visitor, voice thick with sleep. He quickly brushed his teeth, smoothed his hair a little and put on a clean t-shirt, then went to open the door.

Geralt was on the other side of it.

“Geralt!” he squeaked. “I-Geralt, hi, come in. Sorry, fell asleep on the sofa, you know how it is. Come in, come in,” he babbled. Geralt shuffled in, looking at his feet.

“Hi, Jask,” he rumbled. They stood on the door mat, not really looking at each other, not knowing what to say.

“Um,” began Geralt, at the same time as Jaskier said “So”. They laughed nervously.

“You go first,” said Jaskier. Geralt swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck the way he did when he was nervous. _God,_ Jaskier thought, _I’ve_ missed _him._

“I-uh,” Geralt began again. “I’ve been talking to Yennefer,” he continued, and Jaskier fought the urge to scream. Once, just _once,_ could they not have a conversation about something other than Yennefer? Geralt, unusually perceptive, seemed to know what he was feeling.

“I-I didn’t just come here to talk about Yennefer, I- look, Jask, can we sit down? Is that ok?” Jaskier nodded mutely. He had a strange, precognitive, idea that he knew what this conversation was about, but he was still too muzzy from his nap to be able to put his finger on it. They sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, awkward and formal. When had it gone so wrong between them that they didn’t even know how to be easy in one another’s presence anymore? Geralt took a deep breath and began again.

“As I said, I, uh…I didn’t come here to talk about Yennefer. Well, I did. It’s…we were talking about you, actually.” The bottom dropped out of Jaskier’s world. She hadn’t…surely she hadn’t _told_ him? She couldn’t possibly be that cruel, could she?

“Nothing bad!” Geralt amended quickly. “We weren’t saying horrible things about you! I…we were talking about your poems,” he went on desperately. Jaskier felt as though his ears had filled with water. “We were talking about…the one you read on Friday. It was good, Jask, really good.” He peered into Jaskier’s face hopefully. Jaskier found himself unable to speak and settled for smiling weakly. “And I…well, I realised, it had been ages since I went to one of those open mic nights. And I was talking to Yennefer about that and…well, she helped me realise, I’ve been a really bad friend the last couple of months.” Jaskier let out a hollow, brittle ‘ha!’ of laughter.

“You needed someone else to point it out to you?! It wasn’t enough that I was obviously lonely and miserable and hurting, no, but if _Yennefer_ thought it was a problem, then it must be really bad, right?” Geralt winced.

“I-yeah. No, that’s fair. I deserve that. I’m so sorry, Jask. In my-I was gonna say ‘in my defence’, but that’s not really right, I mean…I started... Fuck. I’m no good with words, Jask,” he pleaded. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, archly, in no mood to help him out. Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face. “What I’m trying to say is that I started realising the other week, when we went to the park?” Jaskier nodded. “And…and we were talking about…about being in love, and you said you were, with someone that didn’t love you back, and then that poem the other day, and…I realised I was a shitty friend because I didn’t even know what was going on with you anymore. You had all this shit going on I didn’t even know about, and you didn’t feel like you could tell me about it. And…I have to be honest, to start with I was angry with _you_ about that. And then I thought about it some more, and talked to Yennefer about it, and I realised it was on me. I’m supposed to be your best friend, and I wasn’t there when you needed me. So, whatever’s going on now – between us, I mean – is totally my fault, and I’m so, _so_ sorry.” Jaskier blinked his suddenly blurry eyes. He opened his mouth. Then shut it again.

“Right,” he said eventually, “Huh. Good. Well done.” He knew he was being cruel, but for some reason Geralt’s words, instead of soothing his wounded heart, had only served to make him angrier. Geralt’s face fell. He nodded, slowly, but made no move to get up. The taut silence stretched between them for what felt like hours, although was probably only about five minutes. Then Geralt cleared his throat.

“She um- she also said to tell you that she got the message and…and that she’s sorry.” And then suddenly it was too much, all of it was too much, and Jaskier buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. He heard the thud of Geralt dropping to his knees beside him.

“Jask, Jask, what’s wrong? Did-did someone hurt you? Did Yen hurt you? What can I do?” Pleading. Jaskier said nothing, just buried his face in Geralt’s chest and sobbed. He was physically the closest to Geralt he had been for weeks and yet he had never felt further from him. It was only when the possibility was taken away that he realised he had been secretly hoping for some sort of contrived rom-com ending. Yennefer would relinquish Geralt, and Jaskier would be there to catch him, and all would be as it had almost been before. But there was a multitude of words in that apology. I’m sorry I took him from you. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry you won’t get the happy ending you were hoping for. That was the worst thing of all, Jaskier reflected as Geralt tightened his arms around him and rocked him gently. Now that he had lost even the possibility of Geralt’s love irrevocably, he had to work out what to do with himself. He had no love life to speak of. He was the only single person in his entire group of friends. That had never bothered him when Geralt was single too but now that he wasn’t, Jaskier realised that he had to reconcile himself to one of two things – a life in which he eventually settled down with someone who was not Geralt, or a life in which he remained unhappily single. Because it would be unhappy, at least for a while. No one could love as long and as deeply as Jaskier had loved Geralt and expect the scars of that to fade overnight.

When he came back into himself, Geralt was still holding him, stroking his hair gently. Jaskier sniffed and sat up.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his display. How could he possibly explain this in any way that made sense? Geralt shook his head.

“You don’t have to apologise, Jask, you know that. Seriously though, did she hurt you? Do I have to go to her place and, like, defend your honour or something?” Jaskier chuckled wetly and wiped his eyes.

“No. She didn’t hurt me. Or, she didn’t mean to. It’s…it’s complicated.” Geralt frowned.

“Are you guys like….y’know?” he asked anxiously. Jaskier stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then:

“Oh my God, no! That’s…no, that’s the exact opposite of what’s happening here!” he cried, giggling slightly. Geralt looked relieved.

“Ok, so then…what does she have to do with…with all this?” he asked, gesturing at Jaskier’s tear-stained face.

“Um…ok, first, you have to tell me why you were talking about my poetry with Yennefer.” Geralt frowned again.

“Well, I was…ok, don’t judge me or-or hate me, or whatever, but I was trying to think about who your poem was about. I couldn’t understand how all…all _that_ could have happened to you, and me not even realising!” Jaskier nodded.

“Ok, and what did she say?”

“Well…she-she said that if I couldn’t work it out I was an idiot!” Jaskier laughed, a real laugh this time. Geralt looked relieved. Jaskier still didn’t want to tell him though, and tried to stall for time by thinking about how he could arrange the facts so that Geralt would work it out for himself.

“So, you were thinking about the conversation we had in the park about unrequited love. And you were thinking about Yennefer apologising to me about something and you still couldn’t put two and two together?” he teased. Well, he tried to tease. It sounded a bit forced but the intention was there. Geralt face creased thoughtfully, before brightening with understanding. And then fell again.

“Oh,” he whispered, eventually. “Still?”

“St-What do you mean, _still?!”_ Jaskier spluttered. Geralt looked sheepish.

“I mean, I knew that you…liked me. As…not just a friend. Ages ago. But then, Rory. And I just assumed…” Jaskier slumped back against the sofa.

“Why didn’t you…why didn’t you say something?” he whispered. Geralt looked uncomfortable.

“Because I don’t…I figured that if you wanted me to know, you would tell me. I thought that…that if you weren’t telling me, it meant you didn’t want me to know, and you didn’t want to do anything about it.” Jaskier began to hyperventilate. Geralt reached out a hand.

“Jask, this isn’t – I’m still your friend. Your best friend. You’re important to me. And I like hanging out with you; we always have a good time, right? It doesn’t change things. Between us.” Jaskier sighed.

“That’s…that’s the problem. Things haven’t changed between us. I was reconciled to that,” he added quickly, when he saw that Geralt was going to interrupt. “I was fine with that. But then, a few months ago…it seemed like-like maybe things were changing. And I let myself believe I was finally going to have…well. You. And then, we went to A & E that time, and then Yennefer…” Jaskier trailed off uncomfortably. Geralt looked a little ill.

“You thought…I made you think….oh God, Jask. Jask, I’m so sorry, I’m….I wasn’t. I didn’t meant to…” Jaskier shoulders slumped and he chuckled humourlessly.

“Yeah, figures.” Geralt looked like he was going to cry.

“Jask, I had no idea…I’m so sorry that I made you think that I was…that we were…I’m so sorry.” Jaskier shrugged.

“It’s my own stupid fault for getting my hopes up,” he said sadly. Geralt sighed.

“So…what do we do now?” Jaskier didn’t say anything. He tried to remember what he told clients who came to him with problems like this. His inner Jaskier wanted to laugh it off, pretend he was kidding, pretend the whole thing was an elaborate joke. Evade, obscure, deflect. His inner therapist, however, reminded him that in order for him to get the closure he needed, complete honesty was essential. For the first time in a long, long time, that part of him won.

“I love you,” he said slowly. “I need to say that, first. Just so we’re…completely clear. No question. And I…I wanted…” damnit, he was going to cry again. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to have a relationship with you. I still do. I think I might for a long time.” Geralt looked unhappy. “ _But_ , that’s not why we’re friends. Recent events aside, you’ve always been a good friend to me Geralt,” he said, looking pointedly at Geralt, who grinned sheepishly. “I wasn’t hanging out with you because I thought it would help me get in your pants. We were best friends before I fell in love with you, and…I hope…we will continue to be best friends after…after I’ve…got over you. I don’t…I don’t want you to think that I don’t want you around now that I know for sure that you aren’t….that we aren’t going to have a romantic relationship. I do, very much.” Geralt reached out and took his hand, clearly looking for signs of pain or discomfort in Jaskier’s face. “But,” Jaskier continued, gently extricating himself and taking a deep breath. Geralt’s face fell. “You hurt me, Geralt. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and I know that you’re sorry for it now, but you hurt me. Without either of us realising, I think you’ve been hurting me for a really long time. And I want…if we’re still going to be friends, after everything that’s happened…I need a bit of time. To get my head on straight. To…get over you. I deserve that; I deserve to be able to do that without having to… watch you together. And you deserve…hm. It might get…messy. I’ve seen enough people grieving for things and getting over things to know how this works. I’ll probably be angry, and hurt, and stuff. And…and the thing is, this isn’t your fault. You can’t make yourself love someone anymore than you can force yourself to not love someone. And I don’t…want you to feel like you have to blame yourself.” Jaskier was openly crying now, and Geralt was looking tearful too. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. You won’t…see me, for a while. I don’t know how long, yet. However long it takes, I guess. And then I’m going to get back in touch, see how things are. And then we can…start over. Without all this…complicated stuff. Does-does that sound ok?” he finished shyly. Geralt blinked. He looked a little taken aback, a little sad, and then he smiled. It was a small, sad, watery thing, but it was there.

“I think…I think if that’s what you need…then that’s what you should do. And Jask – I’ll wait. You’re my best friend. I…love you, even if it’s not…not the way you…anyway, you’re important to me, and I want you in my life. So I’ll wait. And I’ll be happy to see you when you come back.” They smiled wetly at one another, and hugged again, long and hard. They hugged again at the door, and then Geralt came _back_ to hug him again.

“I’ll miss you,” was his only response to Jaskier’s questioning glance. Jaskier squeezed his hands, tears leaking from his eyes.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

*

He would have liked to have said that it was easier, after that. That he spent a week meditating and reflecting and eating clean and sleeping a lot, and that he woke up at the end of it feeling freed and refreshed.

This is not what happened. The first night, he cried longer and harder than he had ever cried before. Grief and longing and jealousy were all mixed up inside him, boiled up with anger and bile. He didn’t think he had ever wanted Geralt with as much desperation as he did that night. He was so sick with love and pain that he thought he might die of it. He called Triss, which helped a bit, and then he ate several pints of ice cream. He called Dan to tell him he wouldn’t be working the next two days, and to book an appointment of the (waiting list-free) counselling that all therapists were entitled to. Triss was wonderful but he needed more help than he could reasonably ask her to give him.

After a week of this, things improved a little. He spoke with his therapist every other day. He had expected to talk a lot about Geralt, about anger, about love. And they did talk about those things, but mostly they talked about loneliness and identity. How he didn’t know who he was outside of his attraction to Geralt. How empty and alone he felt in the face of such deep love with no outlet. His therapist, a lovely women called Ava, reminded him that this was what his poetry was for. Jaskier broke down. How was that any better? He wanted to know. In what way was that different to what his one-sided romance with Geralt had been? They both involved pouring his love and his energy and his time into something that couldn’t love him back. His love for Geralt had sustained him through two pleasant but ultimately lukewarm relationships, but now that he didn’t have that anymore, who was he? His entire adult life had been defined by it; every relationship compared to it. He was now facing a future in which his dearest wish had not come true. He had nothing left to strive for. No one to share it with. He spent his working life telling people that romantic relationships were not the only source of fulfilment, that friendships and art and work could fill up the space where romantic love had been, but how could he continue doing so when he no longer believed it? He was a man in his 30s who had never been loved, who had never had even a taste of the happily ever after he so desperately wanted. He deserved that, didn’t he?

And Ava smiled kindly at him. And told him that of course he deserved it. But, as she kept reminding him, what he wanted and what he needed were not necessarily the same. What he needed was fulfilment, and happiness, and joy. And he wanted to get them through romantic relationships because, just now, he was feeling lonely, and was struggling with the end of a romantic relationship – of a sort. But there were other ways to achieve fulfilment and joy. And chasing joy itself, rather than chasing romance, might still lead him to a lover or a spouse, or it might lead him to a career change, or to writing poetry by himself a 3am with a cup of warm tea during a thunderstorm.

It took several weeks for him to stop interrupting her when she tried to tell him this.

It took almost four months for him to start believing her.

*

Three weeks before Christmas, he got in touch with Geralt again. Just a short text, asking how he had been, and tentatively putting out feelers for an in-person meeting in the near future. Geralt replied less than two minutes later. Their text exchange lasted a full week. Jaskier had been worried, in the days leading up to that first message, that things would be awkward and stilted between them. Despite his assurances to Geralt several months previously, he had been concerned that once his desire for Geralt’s love had passed, nothing would be left. Nothing could be further from the truth. Now that his interactions with Geralt were no longer blemished by the misery of unrequited love, Jaskier found that he was better able to participate in Geralt’s life. The story of his disastrous first meeting with Yennefer’s parents, rather than being provoking pain and jealousy, could be enjoyed as the amusing anecdote it was intended to be. The request for advice about how to broach the subject of moving in together with Yennefer (Geralt had refused to even bring it up until he could talk to Jaskier about it) could be met with the experience and wisdom of a man who gave advice for a living, and the respect and concern Geralt had a right to expect from his best friend, rather than the begrudging assistance of someone who’s heart wasn’t really in it.

It would be a lie to say that there was no lingering hurt whatsoever. Jaskier was not naïve enough to expect that his progress was going to be linear. But the point was that _there had been progress._

So, several months later, when Geralt informed him of his plans to ask Yennefer to marry him, it didn’t hurt even a quarter as much as it would have done the same time the previous year.

“Can you be happy for him, Jask?” Triss asked him anxiously when he told her. “Truly?” And Jaskier smiled at her, the truest smile he had smiled since the whole sorry mess had begun, and said:

“Absolutely.”


End file.
